


I Like it When You're Gone

by vivial



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Book of Dust - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Dysfunctional Family, Family Bonding, Fictional Philosophy, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Mild Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:54:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26552413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivial/pseuds/vivial
Summary: "She was almost disappointed, in a way. She had heard the word uncle without knowing what to expect; her only experience with that had been Lord Asriel, who was after all, her father. Even then, she couldn’t tell if he had been a good uncle, and she didn’t like to dwell on him, so she just brushed away her thoughts. Then she tried conceptualizing Mrs. Coulter - her mother - and all she remembered was the flair, the elegance, the sleek figure and menacing presence, a looming ghost of cruelty and sweetness. The man sitting across her was entirely blank, the very definition of dull."AU pre-The Secret Commonwealth, where Lyra finds out her mother left her some money, under the condition she spends time with her aloof uncle.
Relationships: Lyra Belacqua & Marcel Delamare
Comments: 18
Kudos: 29





	I Like it When You're Gone

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to sami for the prompt and for proofreading the legal shenanigans in this!  
> this is, oh, so very self-indulgent but i hope you like it. i have ideas for a second part as well, maybe.  
> this is an au, but it's still very much within the story, so there are spoilers. marcel, of course, meets lyra sooner, and i postponed TSC events to after she graduates.
> 
> title is a song by tom rosenthal, which makes me think of marcel. so yea.

_man hands on misery to man.  
_ _it deepens like a coastal shelf.  
_ _get out as early as you can,  
_ _and don’t have any kids yourself.  
_ ** _—_ this be the verse **by philip larkin

“Maybe we should leave.” Pan said, ever so quietly, but Lyra didn’t move. She didn’t really have a choice, Hannah had been very clear.

“We’ve only learned about this recently, Lyra, otherwise we would have told you.” Hannah had said, ever so calm and full of patience to handle Lyra’s fiery temper, one of the many traits she inherited from Lord Asriel.

She had managed to convince Lyra to go to the meeting that was to be held at the Master’s own home at Jordan, the sort of neutral ground necessary for that sort of transaction. Lyra knew that was nonsense: they needed a neutral ground because the man coming to see her was a high-ranking Magisterium official, as far as she had been told.

She would have laughed if she wasn’t so distraught with everything going on: of course her mother had a brother and _of course_ he was part of the Church. There was nothing normal about Lyra’s family, she had learned that a long time ago, so to allow herself to be surprised by that fact alone was foolish. 

Hannah couldn’t come with her that afternoon, but the Master stayed, already old and tired, though he made it clear he _wanted_ to stay and that he would do so, whether she liked it or not. She was eighteen now, her birthday barely a month past, yet if she ever thought something special about being an adult, she sure as hell didn’t feel like one.

“Listen to everything the lawyer will say, and then we’ll go into the details.” The Master said. His presence was friendly and comfortable and familiar. His daemon hummed softly, as she felt too tired to talk extensively with Pan, who laid lazily on the table.

Lyra opened her mouth to ask another question, as she was full of them even now, but Mr. Cawson opened the door to the dinner room and allowed for a man and a woman to enter. The woman was tall, uptight, hair done modestly, carrying a suitcase; her air of urgency and exhaustion, despite the good looks, identified her as the lawyer. It was a novelty, as not many women were in such a position, but Lyra was too busy staring at the man who accompanied her.

She was almost disappointed, in a way. She had heard the word _uncle_ without knowing what to expect; her only experience with that had been Lord Asriel, who was after all, her father. Even then, she couldn’t tell if he had been a good uncle, and she didn’t like to dwell on him, so she just brushed away her thoughts. Then she tried conceptualizing Mrs. Coulter - her _mother_ \- and all she remembered was the flair, the elegance, the sleek figure and menacing presence, a looming ghost of cruelty and sweetness. The man sitting across her was entirely blank, the very definition of dull.

He had opened his suit before sitting, carefully and slowly; for a moment Lyra thought he was a lazy bureaucrat like any other in any position of power, but Pan saw it differently. The man’s eyes were quick and he was examining everything, quietly and quickly, like a caged animal trying to plot its escape. Pan didn’t tell Lyra that, but she felt it, as his guard went up.

The lawyer spoke fast, methodically, opening her suitcase, taking a couple of papers out of it and reading it to Lyra, who mostly nodded passively. She looked at the man, almost defiantly, and he looked back without much interest. The only common ground they had was that they both seemed utterly displeased to be there.

“Your mother named you as the beneficiary to her life trust, essentially, and we’re here to discuss the terms and how you can fulfill them.” The lawyer concluded, handing the papers to the Master, who leaned forward to read the papers more closely.

“The amount of money-- is that correct?” The Master asked weakly, and the lawyer nodded, using her own pen to point at several paragraphs to which he read and nodded. “It’s a considerable amount.”

“Mrs. Coulter owned a property in London, alongside several different investments and other types of business that caused her to accumulate several high value assets for her estate.” The lawyer explained, to Lyra mostly, her eyes behind her glasses remained cold and distant and precise. That woman knew nothing but rules and laws and pristine documents; a woman who lived for her work and her work alone. _Admirable_ , Lyra thought indifferently, _but utterly boring._ “She also inherited her late husband’s fortune, as I am sure you are aware, Master.”

Lyra shifted in her place, faintly, but she knew Marcel noticed it immediately. She was a great vocal liar, but lying with her body was another story entirely, one that she wasn’t very good at telling. He watched her, and she watched him back, and this time he had a glitter of amusement in his eyes, barely visible. The only man who had ever made Lyra feel shy with their presence had been Asriel, imposing, strong, visceral; she had cornered and blushed and stuttered in his very presence.

Her uncle was nothing like that, yet she felt uneasy in his presence. Perhaps it was his visible desire to leave, hands spread on the table, muscles tense in his jaw; she almost told him she related to the feeling.

“So, Lyra, you’re the beneficiary of this trust, and your mother set it up so that the money is under the responsibility of your uncle Marcel.” She gestured at Marcel, and he barely moved, his owl on his shoulder opening her wings in a gesture Lyra couldn’t understand. The lawyer looked up on another paper and tapped the pen twice on the table. “She made a list of requirements for how the money should be distributed, and you also need to comply with a few conditions.”

“Of course she did.” Marcel said quietly, raising his eyebrows, unimpressed.

“I don’t want it.” Lyra said suddenly, startling everyone, including Pan who ran to her shoulders, and whispered: “What’s gotten into you?”

The way Marcel had looked at her was what made her snap. His disdain irritated her, offended her even, and she felt like she was being taunted into a fight, like the ones she used to be in when she was a kid.

“I beg your pardon?” The lawyer said, looking at Lyra with sheer confusion.

“The money. I don’t want it.” Lyra tapped on the table, looking at Marcel as if daring him to say something. He didn’t. “I don’t need it.”

“Miss Lyra, I don’t understand. I mean, legally you have a right to this money.”

“Yet it comes with a dozen rules and restrictions, I don’t want it.” Lyra crossed her arms over her chest, Pan adjusting himself on top of them, like a baby being cradled. “My father left me some money already.”

Marcel scoffed, and Lyra realised he had a lot of Mrs. Coulter in him, how he managed to force her to look at him with nothing more than a sound. He also had the same piercing eyes, a handsome face with sharp angles and strong eyebrows. They weren’t similar, but he evoked Mrs. Coulter’s presence easily. It unnerved her immensely.

“What’s funny?” She asked him, defiant, when he grinned. It wasn’t a happy grin; he was irritated.

“The only thing your father left you was a bad temper and a bad reputation.” His voice was deep, calm, smooth, yet he spoke with such disdain that it felt like he was spitting the words. Lyra didn’t flinch though; she was used to middle-aged men acting as if rudeness was a personality trait.

“What do you mean?” She demanded, and he raised his eyebrows at the Master, who looked at him, taking a deep breath. It felt like he was shaking his head, but Lyra was so irritated that she couldn’t really know.

“Nevermind.” Marcel sighed, breathing out so heavily that Lyra felt the air hit the table and reach for her. She opened her mouth to retort but he interrupted her immediately. “Here are the requirements. Please sign the papers. I don’t have all day.”

“No.” Lyra scowled, frowning.

He pressed his lips tightly, and if it wasn’t for the table between them, Lyra thought he might have slapped her. His daemon landed on the table, her wings open in a menacing gesture. Pan leapt from Lyra’s arms to growl at the owl, and the Master put his hand on Lyra’s shoulder, but she kept on taunting Marcel.

He leaned forward, his palms on the table, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a displeased smirk.

“You think you’re so cute, in your unsuitable outfit, your disheveled posture, your lack of common social courtesy. You do, don’t you? They don’t tell you how much of a burden you are.” He hissed, calm and patient and very pleasant. His eyes were scary now, though, wet and clear and glittering with anger. Lyra felt like she had made a mistake, but she didn’t back down. “Do you think I want to be here? My sister goes out there and has a bastard child, and then she vanishes and still leaves me with the trouble of having to deal with _you._ ”

“I’m not asking you to!” Lyra protested and Pan showed his sharp teeth to the owl, who offensively disregarded him with an uninterested glance. At this point, Lyra would have subdued anyone else in that fight but she couldn’t do it to Marcel.

He reached for the paper on the table, placed it in front of Lyra, his fingers spread over it in a vicious gesture, then he tapped on it.

“You may not, but my sister is.” He hissed. “Now, you’ll read the terms, and we’ll see what can be done about it, and I will leave after you sign them. I don’t have time to squander with a woman who insists on behaving like a brat.”

“You don’t get to talk to me like that!”

“I get to talk to you however I want. You’ve done nothing to earn my respect.” He said, calmly, like that was the most obvious thing in the world. “I need this solved soon. I have a life, a career, I don’t need this sort of headache. Read and sign.”

He leaned against his chair again, watching her, almost as if daring her to say anything. There was plenty she wanted to say, but the Master squeezed her shoulder and she looked at him. He gave her an encouraging nod.

“Best do as he says, Lyra.” She wanted to disagree, but she couldn’t yell at Dr. Carne, who was old and frail.

The requirements were ridiculous, in her opinion. As the lawyer explained carefully, Lyra thought that her mother must have been crazy or drunk when she decided to conceive those conditions. For the first payment, Lyra would have had to enroll in college; that much was already happening regardless of her mother’s money. She had started her semester at St. Sophia’s weeks ago, but the contract also said Lyra needed to meet with her uncle once a year, at least, so he could track her improvement. That alone was outrageous, but after their little banter, Lyra loathed the idea of spending any more time with that man than she had to.

“There are two other payments to be done, one for your conclusion of your degree, and another that can be done under several different categories, but your mother emphasized her desire for you to use the money for academic purposes.” The lawyer went on. “The condition is the same, you are to spend time with your uncle, so he can then release the money into your account. It’s a simple condition.”

“No, it isn’t.” Lyra mumbled. “He clearly doesn’t want to spend time with me, and I’m afraid the feeling is mutual.”

Marcel raised an eyebrow, and she hated his smug attitude. It felt familiar, she realised. It reminded her of herself.

“What _we_ like doesn’t matter. You need the money for your studies and I need this problem solved. In my line of work, I cannot afford a headline saying I’m… I--” He sighed, wetting his lips with his tongue.

She could tell he was frustrated, perhaps just as much as she was. He turned to the lawyer and asked in French for the word he was looking for. Lyra realised she didn’t know his nationality up until then, but more importantly, she took notice of how he seemed to think she couldn’t understand him.

“Embezzling.” Lyra said in French. He turned to her, a little surprised, a little confused, and narrowed his eyes. She believed there was even something else in his expression, something positive, though she couldn’t possibly name it.

“You speak French.” He said to her, still in French. His moment of being impressed was gone already; his face was emotionless.

“Yes, I do.”

“It’s terrible.”

“Screw you.” She said and his eyes twitched, as if he meant to smile, but held back. “It’s good enough.”

“It isn’t, but so be it. I need you to take this mess out of my hands so I can go back to my normal life and you can go back to yours.” Marcel sighed. “This has already demanded a lot of time since you refuse to use your _actual_ name. Tracking you down was not easy.”

“I don’t want the money, just take it for yourself.”

“I can’t. I can only have access to it if you die.” He ended his phrase with an awful grin. Lyra felt intimidated, but she tried her best not to show. “I also don’t need it. If you don’t take the money, it’s just going to stay there, which is a waste, especially when you might _need_ it."

“I told you, I don’t need it.”

He scoffed, looking at her with disdain, but then he shifted his gaze to the Master, serious.

“You told me she could be uncooperative, but this is a new level of difficulty.” Marcel said, quietly. “So, either you tell her or I will. I have to be back in London by night.”

Lyra turned to look at the Master, puzzled, and he glanced at her, wary. His daemon made a soft noise, encouraging him, so he sighed at last.

“Lyra, your father’s money ran out a couple of years ago.” She tried hard to keep herself from showing it how shocked she was while hearing that, and for the most part she succeeded. The looming presence of Marcel’s amusement at the scene felt heavy on her. _What an arsehole,_ she thought. “As you know, he wasn’t exactly a rich man, and while he had left some money for your expenses when you were younger, and while I did invest some of it, it just wasn’t enough to cover all of your expenses, especially not with your need to study.”

“But… then… how--” Lyra held Pan tight against her chest.

“Well, I have some spare money and I have been financing your studies for a couple of years now.” He said, reluctantly. Lyra opened her mouth to protest, but the Master raised his hand to stop her, pacifyingly. “It was my decision, and I intended to continue financing you until monsieur Delamare reached out. We agreed not to mention it to you, about your father, simply because it was convenient, but given your stubbornness in accepting your mother’s money, I feel like that might have been foolish of me.”

She looked away, avoiding everyone’s gaze. Suppressing any expressions of unhappiness or distaste, she mimicked Marcel’s blank expression, and took the papers in her hands. Pan leaned over her hands to read them again, though Lyra herself was simply staring at it, trying to organise her thoughts.

“Take the money, Lyra. Your mother wanted that to be the case.” The Master squeezed her shoulder again, and Lyra sighed, looking between Marcel and the lawyer. Her shoulders dropped; despite the money, she still felt humiliated.

“Very well.” She placed the papers on the table, unsatisfied. “Where do I sign?”

Marcel placed a fountain pen in front of her in a lazy gesture, and the lawyer began to talk again, finally snapping from her confusion, after seeing someone deny so much money.

“Please, I understand you use Silvertongue now, but I must ask that you sign with your legal name. Belacqua, I believe?” The lawyer said, politely, and Lyra nodded, raising her eyes to quickly see what Marcel was doing. As expected, he was immobile, his jaw tense as if he was biting the inside of his mouth.

Lyra finished signing and the lawyer checked all the papers, separating Lyra’s copies and handing them to Lyra, who held the small folder to her breast. She raised an eyebrow.

“So, how does this work?” She managed to say, in an unwilling way, like a spoiled child when forced to eat something they didn’t want. This usually worked on most adults she dealt with - _adults_ , she thought amused - but it didn’t work on Marcel, because he was a spoiled child himself, who was also being forced to do something against his will.

“I’m sure you’ve been told about me.” Marcel said, lazily, adjusting his cufflinks as the lawyer closed her suitcase.

“Only your name and that you work for the Magisterium.”

“I work _at_ the Magisterium, yes. _La Maison Juste_ , you can do some research if you like.” His formality unnerved her; Asriel had at least been amused by her, treated her like a nuisance, but a _family_ nuisance. Marcel treated her like a stranger, cold and distant and formal. _Well, I am a stranger,_ she thought; if not for her mother’s trust fund, the two of them would never have met. At least, that’s what Lyra assumed, considering how openly he declared his total lack of desire of being around her. That offended her. “As you’ve noticed, probably, I am not English. I live in Geneva, but sometimes I need to come by. I can’t stay to fulfill the meeting requirements now, but we can set up a meeting closer to Christmas, if that’s works for you.”

Lyra shrugged and Marcel sighed, finally affected by that girl’s absolute disinterest and uncooperative attitude. He took a card from his inner pocket, and slid it through the table to her. Lyra stared at it for a while, before picking it up. It was simple, minimalist, with the words _La Maison Juste_ written in an old fashioned font and a phone number and address. There was a symbol which Lyra assumed was the symbol of his workplace, tightly designed in a crude style. Everything about this man was formal and passionless. Lyra just couldn’t relate.

“This is my contact, should you need it.” He said. “Given you are already attending college, I’ll release the money before our required meeting, as I imagine you might need it. It should be in your account in a couple of days.”

“And then what? We’ll just meet and have tea and play pretend?” Lyra scoffed, and Marcel blinked, slowly, pondering. “Is that what you want?”

“It’s what Marisa wanted.”

“And you just do whatever she wants, then?” Lyra taunted him, and Pan rushed to her arms, as he felt like she shouldn’t have done that.

Marcel’s face hardened, not with anger but with disgust. Lyra wasn’t impressed with him, but what she had just realised was that he wasn’t impressed with her either, and that stung. She was used to being liked and admired instantly, and despite that man’s rudeness and uncanniness and the fact he was her mother’s brother, a Magisterium man, Lyra wanted him to be in awe, astonished, surprised.

All he did was look bored.

“You’re an orphan.” He said, standing up and closing the button in his suit. The lawyer followed his movement, holding the suitcase in her hands, watching him warily. Marcel towered over Lyra, and while he wasn’t strongly built, he had some strength in him. Sleek and slim like his sister, he had nothing of manual labour in his appearance, the piercing eyes of a hungry panther. He looked down on her. “I don’t expect you to understand the concept of family.”

He said his formal goodbye to them, more so to the master, and Lyra watched as he walked out, smooth and calm. She didn’t cry, of course, but she felt like she might have, after what he had said.

He might as well have slapped her across the face.

* * *

They looked at each other, awkwardly, for almost half an hour. Nothing happened, not that Lyra expected anything to happen, but Marcel just barely did anything more than breathe and sip his tea.

He didn’t enjoy the tea, she noticed slightly delighted, but he also didn’t complain. Too well bred for that, she realised as they sat across each other in a comfortable room at Jordan, each in a fluffy armchair, not unlike her tea meetings with Asriel before. _At least Lord Asriel made conversation,_ she thought, her index finger brushing against the teacup’s handle; she was almost out of tea.

It was cold in the room, so one of the servants lit the fire, and outside there was a vague sign of sunlight, that was mostly devoured by clouds. Marcel had left his coat by the door, but he dressed similarly to the day they met, a simple and elegant grey suit that made him look older than he was. Pan and his owl didn’t get along either, just staring at each other with a lot of tension.

It was never quite so difficult to speak to people, Lyra had a gift in making acquaintances easily, but Marcel was a man who enjoyed the silence and the solitude of his own company, and because they disliked each other and their situation, he wasn’t willing to let her approach him.

He picked up his teacup and sipped again, the silence heightening all the small noises that made them both highly uncomfortable. When he placed the cup down again, Lyra examined his hands out of a lazy and subconscious curiosity; he wore a single ring, a signet ring, with the same symbol that was in his card.

“Are you married?” She asked, suddenly, and her voice cracked a bit in the utter silence of the room; Marcel was surprised with the sudden noise.

“No.” He said, frowning. It was a very elegant frown, Lyra thought, just barely there amongst his eyebrows. Pan had turned his head to look at her, baffled. He didn’t say it out loud, but she knew what he wanted to say.

“What are you doing?” His whole body language seemed to evoke. She didn’t know the answer to that.

“Any girlfriends?” She had to control herself not to laugh, because that was the silliest thing she could ever have asked. Marcel seemed to agree, which ironically, was the first time they ever had any common ground.

“No.”

“Would you tell me, though? If you had a girlfriend, I mean?” Lyra pushed a little further, her hands on her lap, a docile attitude. He took the teacup to his lips again, and when he heard that, she saw the corners of his lips twist but barely. He sipped the tea, pressed his lips and set the cup down again.

“No, I wouldn’t.” His daemon tilted her head, perhaps amused or simply puzzled at his reaction. “Would you? Tell me about your personal life, I mean?”

“I don’t think so. I suppose that’s fair, then.” She whispered. They fell into silence again, but she hated it very much, much more than she hated having to try and make conversation. She picked up her teacup, but stopped halfway. “What is it exactly that you do? Your job, I mean. I’ve never heard of _La Maison Juste_ before.”

“We try to find ways to accommodate the new world to the views of the Church.”

“Like what? Having religious technology?”

“In a way, yes, sort of. Youth nowadays is very much apathetic to religion, they prefer logic and reason and disregard the Church altogether which, I’m sure you are aware, it’s a dangerous point of view.” Marcel explained, quietly. “We try and make a bridge between modern views and lifestyles and religion, so these people aren’t arrested for something avoidable.”

“So, you’re not violent?”

“Usually, no. Violence is so unrefined, I prefer to avoid conflict altogether, if I can.” He leaned against his chair, watching her. “How… How goes college?”

“It’s all fine. I’ve passed all my tests and I’m free for the winter break.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes, it is.” Her voice died halfway. They stared at each other in silence again. Marcel checked his watch, then looked at her again. She couldn’t decipher his expression, and that was beginning to become a pattern in their ever so short relationship. She cleared her throat. “Did you… go to college?”

The question took him by surprise, so he arched his eyebrows, and breathed out.

“Yes, I did. I studied Economics at the University of Geneva.” He finally decided to stop drinking the tea, but Lyra poured more for herself.

She liked to think that Pan’s soft scoff was what gave her away, but the truth was she barely could hide her disdainful scowl. He saw it, but instead of insulted, he just hummed something. That was as far as laughing as he would go, she considered.

“And what did you learn there?” She tried to salvage her situation in a polite manner that was very mechanical.

“I learned that was a waste of my time.” His monotonous tone made Lyra laugh.

Once again, there was silence, but the room felt less hostile. She realised how very little she knew about him, other than the few details her friends at Oakley Street had managed to grasp for her. He was a darling amongst different circles of the Church and she knew he was good at his job too, though she knew almost nothing of what that meant. She didn’t have a lot of interest in the Magisterium.

“You and Mrs. Coulter-- my mother. Are you the older brother?”

She tried not to look too confused when he chuckled, very quietly, at her inquiry. His owl turned her head to him, puzzled at his reaction too, but for different reasons. To her, he was being indulgent and that was unlike him.

“No. The younger one. By a few minutes.”

“You’re twins!” Lyra said, surprised and he nodded, passionless. “Well, that sort of makes sense.”

“Why is that?”

“You have the same eyes, and eyebrows.” Lyra smiled, but something had happened to him. His face darkened, his expression becoming something she couldn’t understand. He looked at his watch, impatiently and sighed, relieved. Marcel stood up, his daemon flying to his extended arm. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No. Our time is up and I have to go. Should you need anything, reach out. I’ll be seeing you soon.” He mumbled, mechanically, and he barely gave her time to say her own goodbyes before he reached for his coat and left the room.

“He was upset over the comparison.” Pan told her, as she stared out the window, watching Marcel’s figure disappear inside a black car.

“I didn’t mean to upset him.” She mentioned, defensively, but they didn’t linger too much on that. It wasn’t like Marcel Delamare needed their pity.

In fact, he was the last person on the planet who deserved it.

* * *

In her second year of college, Lyra attended a party at Jordan College, which gathered several different scholars at once to talk about different things. It was mostly a social event, with a hint of academic discussion and she mostly just liked staying there because many of the old scholars pampered her and indulged her when she approached them to discuss the news from overseas or someone’s newest article.

Marcel had come for their semestral meeting the day before, and it went about as expected, with silence being ruined every now and again by a casual line of _“How have you been?”_ or _“This weather is hideous”._ He didn’t seem to harbour any resentment over the last time they saw each other and she had mentioned his similarities to his sister, but truth be told, his relationship with his niece seemed entirely based on resentment, so it was hard to tell if he was angry or not.

He was a man who was constantly frowning, and Lyra doubted that was a new trait; she could see him as a boy, unhappy with his sister, a frown on his face. Although she would never admit it out loud, Lyra spent a great deal of time imagining her uncle and his sister as children, and while Mrs. Coulter’s young image was complicated but still visible, Lyra had a harder time seeing that stoic man as a child.

She had expected him to leave soon after their meeting, as he usually did once his side of the deal was complete, but to her surprise, he had showed up at that party as well.

She didn’t have time to talk to him straight away, instead being pulled this way or that to talk to a scholar or an explorer or a diplomat, but she managed to find some time to track him down to the veranda, only to realise he was not alone.

Brash as usual, Lyra walked in immediately after seeing him, Pan in her arms, but she hadn’t seen the woman with him, who had been concealed by the curtains separating the exterior from the salon full of people and music. Marcel stepped away from his companion immediately, and the woman smiled at Lyra, a glass of champagne in her hands, her robin daemon perched on her bare shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Lyra began to say, but the woman smiled and Lyra recognised her as Lady Eilhart, though she looked very different from her usual dull clothes and messy hair.

“I was just about to leave, anyway, darling. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you in London soon, Delamare.” She patted Marcel’s arm delicately and moved away, leaving Lyra in the difficult position of facing Marcel after interrupting whatever was it that they were doing.

To her amusement, her uncle didn’t keep eye contact with her, instead downing his own glass of champagne when she leaned against the balustrade, facing him with a wild smirk. It was a bit dark outside, with the nearby lamps just casting a barely noticeable warm light on them, but she saw that he had some fading lipstick stains on his chin.

“What are you staring at?” He growled, annoyed and she scoffed.

“You have lipstick all over your face.”

He cussed, using his handkerchief to wipe it all away. Lyra laughed when he tried to see how much he had cleaned and he just sighed.

“Bloody woman.” He cursed, quietly, his daemon opening her wings in frustration. He turned to Lyra and asked if all the stains were gone. She was tempted to lie and keep him worrying about it for a while longer, but she decided to just tell him the truth. “She does it on purpose.”

“I didn’t know you knew her.” Lyra said smugly.

“We’re acquaintances.” He said, uninterested in her attitude. Lyra smirked.

“Who leave lipstick stains on each other.”

“Mind your business.” He snapped and Lyra hummed a laugh, to his displeasure, but he didn’t really seem angry. Maybe a little drunk.

“I thought you had left yesterday.” She announced, matter-of-factly. He sighed, side-eyeing her. His daemon adjusted herself on his shoulder.

“I was going to, but I ended up having to stay.”

“Lady Eilhart’s handiwork, I presume.”

“She doesn’t hold me under her sway, not like that, anyway.” He shook his head and Lyra believed him, although not absolutely.

“Magisterium business.” Pan suggested it to her ear. Lyra was inclined to agree.

Marcel never quite spoke about his work at _La Maison Juste._ He would always mention this appointment, or that resolution, but never truly go into details. Lyra respected that for a couple of reasons, one of them being Hannah Relf’s suggestion that she appease him, as he was considered a dangerous man, though Lyra had a hard time seeing how that was possible. Another reason, and if she was being honest, the true reason why she never asked him too many questions, was because she feared that once she invaded his privacy, he would feel entitled to do the same to her. That would include telling him about Dick Orchard, which she was fine with, but if he kept on going, he could unearth all sorts of things, things she didn’t think about them herself, like her journey to the North or her separation from Pan. She dreaded this more than anything else.

“Well, I wouldn’t blame you if she had dragged you here.” Lyra said and he raised his eyebrows, surprised. She breathed out. “Lady Eilhart, I mean. She’s awfully persistent. She made me attend her Christmas party last year, and wouldn’t take a _no_ for an answer.”

“Her only redeeming quality.” He mocked and Pan snickered, jumping to the balustrade and bowed to the owl, who joined him.

“You weren’t at _that_ party, though.” Her witty smile didn’t impress him so much as it amused him.

“We don’t really socialise.” His tone showed a desire to drop the matter immediately, but that was not in Lyra’s nature.

“You were _socialising_ just now.”

That made him laugh, which was a considerable feat. He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath, the empty glass being swirled in his hand.

“You sound just like your mother.” He mumbled, quietly, and Lyra felt cold.

It didn’t sound like a compliment, but nothing he ever said sounded like a compliment, at least not a genuine praise, but she felt like he meant it in a good way. Reasonably thinking, Lyra knew she couldn’t blame him for thinking of his sister fondly, or for perceiving the woman Mrs. Coulter was, very differently from what Lyra knew. Everyone who knew her mother spoke of her in soft lies or quiet omission, trying their best not to taint even further the image of what Marisa Coulter had been. Not that they needed to worry that much, because Lyra already knew her mother had been vicious, cruel, and ultimately, a very complicated woman for whom Lyra had complicated feelings for. Unlike the others, Lyra realised, Marcel’s opinion came uncensored and he genuinely liked Marisa. It was an unique opportunity, too good to waste, Lyra thought.

“You don’t like hearing that, do you?” He said, his voice low. He had been watching her, as she stood there immobile, lips parted, the music coming from inside the party slightly fading while reaching their spot. Pan watched her, and so did the owl, and Lyra felt like an experiment out of a sudden. _Horrible choice of words_ , she thought.

“I don’t know what to make of it.”

“These people have biased you against her.” One of the waiters came and Marcel switched his glass for a full one, and he grabbed one for Lyra as well, who reluctantly took it. She scoffed at him.

“I’m certain she did that herself.”

“I suppose.” That took Lyra by surprise. She had expected him to fiercely stand for his sister, but there he was, agreeing with his niece that her mother was a mess. “Marisa was never meant for motherhood, not that nature respected that, by giving her a functioning womb. She knew that when we were kids, and she knew that when you were born. Trust me when I say that the greatest favour she has ever done to you was to send you to your father.”

She could hear the distaste in his voice, as he sipped his champagne while his owl pecked at his finger, reproachfully. He didn’t mind her though.

“You don’t like him.” Lyra watched to see his reaction, but all he did was scoff.

“Who liked him? The man was a nuisance. Disrespectful, wild, incoherent, full of himself-- the list goes on and on.” He gestured in a way that looked funny.

“Did you ever meet him?”

“No.”

“Yet--” Lyra began and he sighed.

“Yet I know all of this about him. This just goes to show how much of a nuisance he was, to the point that even in Geneva I heard of the mess he created. Not _you_ , I mean all the heresy he was involved with.” Marcel mumbled, clicking his tongue in displeasure. “He was one of the few people who could truly understand your mother, however, or perhaps he just accepted her with all her flaws, and they were many. He enabled her, which frankly was a mistake, but I respect the fact he could survive around her longer than most.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being insulting or if you genuinely don’t know the difference between a compliment and an insult.” Lyra said, matter-of-factly. Marcel shook his head, grinning. “Do we have family left? I mean, outside from you?”

“Your grandmère is alive. So is my father, as far as I’m aware, but I haven’t seen him in years.” Lyra raised her eyebrows, surprised, and he noticed it. He chuckled. “Oh, I would advise against meeting her, though. If you don’t like me, surely you won’t like her. I’ve yet to meet someone who actually likes her, to be honest.”

“You didn’t think of telling me this sooner, eh?” Lyra snapped and all he did was look her up and down, a mocking expression in his face. That irritated her even more.

“No.”

“Well, you’ve got no right!” She continued. She didn’t notice, but Marcel’s daemon was whispering something to Pan while she was scolding her uncaring uncle. “If I have family, I have a right to know! You always talk about being proper and civilised, yet you go about hiding things from people! That’s not right, or proper--”

“Calm down.” He said, slowly, he used his fingers to lift her glass from below, gesturing for her to drink. She took a long sip. “Good. Now, if you want to meet her, I should fly you to Geneva, just say the word. But I think you should postpone that for now.”

“Why is that?”

“There is a reason why your mother moved to England at such a young age. Our mother isn’t exactly the gentle type.” He snickered at a thought he had, puzzling Lyra, then he shook his head and looked at her again. “If you think Marisa wasn’t cut out for motherhood, wait until you meet _maman_.”

He finished his drink and took a look at his watch, then sighed. His daemon went back to his shoulder; he was preparing to leave, though he leaned against the balustrade again, watching her with a blank expression. She hated these moments, he made her feel like a spoiled child being indulged, only to then be scolded for it. She didn’t quite like him, he was an asshole after all, but she found him entertaining to be around. His candor was refreshing compared to the other people in her life, always treading on eggshells around her, afraid of damaging someone who already was quite damaged. Marcel had no such fears or shame; Lyra could tell he was the sort of person who embraced strength in the face of adversity, a man who could talk his way out of any dire situation. Like Marisa, he captivated her and at the same time, he made her loathe him.

“You hate this, don’t you?” She asked, quietly, and he looked surprised, eyes widening. “These meetings with me.”

“They’re not my favorite thing, that’s true.” He sighed. Lyra felt hurt, but it was just the faintest feeling. Why should she care that such a distasteful man, barely connected to her by blood, didn’t like her company? Everyone else did, he didn’t matter, she thought bitterly, although the lingering offense was still there, somewhere, buried deep. “Mostly because I have to go out of my way for these. It would be a lot easier if you lived in Geneva.”

“But you come here for Lady Eilhart, though.” Lyra tried to mock him, but it absolutely backfired.

He chuckled and shook his head.

“Well, Eilhart does things for me that you don’t.”

“Ah, gross!” Lyra exclaimed, blushing, Pan stuck out his tongue in disgust.

“I meant _professionally_ , she’s a good political acquaintance.” He snickered. “But, yes, also what you thought. And she is the one that usually goes to Geneva. Ashamed of me, as far as I can tell. Doesn’t like to parade me around here, where her _friends_ can recognise me.”

He pointed at his finger, where the Magisterium ring was, and quietly chuckled. Lyra scoffed, holding Pan in her arms tightly. Marcel watched her a while longer, and finally sighed, standing up.

“Your father, on the other hand, would have paraded Marisa around, Magisterium or not.” He put his hands on his pockets. “In fact, I believe that her affiliation to the Church amused him, enticed him, even. One has to admire that kind of resolve, I think.”

“You envied her.” Lyra said it before she could realise what she was saying. She expected him to storm out, furious, but all he did was grin. A sad grin. He didn’t often look sad to her, but this time he did.

“Perhaps. To be understood is to be loved, after all, and he understood her more than most.”

“Even more than you.” Lyra knew she was abusing her luck, but he didn’t seem to mind that. She liked to imagine he liked her boldness, as a man from his status wasn’t used to impertinence.

“Perhaps even more than me. Living in her shadow wasn’t easy, and as I’m sure you know, she was prone to being cruel when she was wronged.”

“Yes.” She opened her mouth to say something else, but hesitated. Marcel noticed, and clicked his tongue, impatient.

“Speak your mind.” He hissed. “I detest people who lack backbone to express themselves.”

“I think all these conditions for this money is her way of punishing me.” She hated how silly she felt when she said that out loud, because it sounded paranoid, and the fact he chuckled didn’t really help. “That she knew I would need it and couldn’t deny it, after all. Everyone knew Asriel didn’t have any money.”

He scratched the space between his eyebrows, pondering his words.

“No. She is punishing _me._ ” He said, quietly. “You see, we were very close when we were younger. We would help each other out. But when she got pregnant with you, I didn’t take that well. It was a scandal, a shame on the family, I was afraid of what would happen to my career. I turned my back on her, I just couldn’t respect her anymore. This is her way of telling me it’s time to repent for what I did.”

“You could just say no.”

“True, but I feel like I owe her this much.” He sighed. "She knew parenthood was not meant for me either, so it all suits her whims just fine.”

Lyra lowered her eyes, feeling dizzy, but he cleared his throat. He looked awkward now, not knowing how to speak, but ready to do so, lips parted, then closed again, then parted again.

“I wish I could tell you that she loved you very much, but the truth is I don’t know if that is true.” He whispered, then cleared his throat and spoke louder when Lyra’s expression darkened. “Marisa didn’t do these conventional emotions very well. She was reserved, private, self-serving most of the time. But when she cared, she showed it in her own ways. To me, it was protecting me from our mother when she was having a tantrum, only to then slap me in the head and tell me I owed her ten times more what she had just done.” He chuckled at his own memories; he looked younger then, Lyra realised, less concerned with all the present problems and losses and all the hurt four decades of living weight on someone. “To you, it might as well be this money. It’s not just about the money, you know. You might understand that, eventually.”

“Do you think it runs in the family? Bad parenting?” She asked, suddenly, because she was unsure of how to respond to the things he had just said and he snickered. Sentimentality sure didn’t run in the family.

“I’ve considered it, yes.” He finally yawned and brushed his eyebrows, choosing his words carefully. “Well, I should be on my way. Should you decide to meet your grandmother, although I discourage you to do so, maybe I can take you there for Christmas, for our next meeting.”

“I will think about it. Thank you.”

Asriel would have patted her head, but Marcel simply nodded and walked past her, his daemon perched on his shoulder.

“Are you really thinking about meeting this grandmother?” Pan asked her. Lyra hummed, lost in her thoughts.

“Maybe.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. His daemon told me the woman is connected to several different CCD officials.” Pan observed Marcel disappear amongst the guests. Lyra looked at him, puzzled. “I think he is trying to keep us from meeting her because of that.”

“Well, he is Magisterium too! That doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?”

“But he is his _own_ Magisterium group, it’s not the same as the CCD.”

It was hard telling the difference, but such were the ways around the Magisterium. You could find saints and sinners in equal measure, and while Lyra herself had very little interest in such dealings, people around her were often in a crusade against the Church and their controlling points of view.

Marcel wasn’t much like them, she had noticed; he had little to say about her dresses, who followed the recent fashion and went a bit above her knees, or about her sudden use of make up, or the controversial books she would have to read in college. The Chaplain frowned at her appearances and people from the CCD would harass scholars like her but her uncle was not in the least interested in these things. She couldn’t tell in what exactly he was interested, as he was a bastion of modesty and silence and secrecy. She loved keeping secrets, but she loathed when they were kept from her, and he was not a man she could pry open with doe eyes and the right words.

As far as Lyra was concerned, Marcel and his work at _La Maison Juste_ were not dangerous or harmful, but what harmful meant, in all its range of meanings, was a question of point of view.

* * *

Their meetings became a little easier, and Lyra credited that to the fact he was beginning to have some respect for her. Not entirely, as he still treated her as someone to be amused by, but when she spoke seriously and confidently enough, he would heed her words, albeit sometimes he would absolutely ignore the message. She hardly blamed him, there were times when she ignored what he was saying too. It made her realise the stubborness in her, hailed from her mother’s side of the family.

He couldn’t make it to her graduation, stranded in a storm in Geneva, but he took her for lunch the day after, and they went for a walk afterwards. The conversation began as usual, with them asking each other about their lives and how things were going, and then moved into what she was planning to do next, now that he had released the second payment of the trust fund, and if she intended to move to London or someplace else and so on.

He was more open-minded than she gave him credit for, as she learned through the visits. A little beastly, a little sadistic, but overall, he was a man of reason and logic and cold, hard facts, and she could respect that, despite his affiliations.

By the time they made it to the riverbank, the same one Anthony Hassall would have been murdered and dragged through in a few months to come, they were in a heated discussion about _The Hyperchorasmians._

“It’s a glorified tale.” He said, unimpressed as usual, as they sat in the grass to watch the gyptian boats pass by. The casual setting didn’t suit him in his suit and tie, but he tried his best to fit in with Lyra’s familiarity with the scenery; he was not, at his core, an Oxford man.

“It’s not! It has a lot of depth and it tackles many different important subjects!” She objected, but he shook his head, grinning.

“So many words, yet you say so very few meaningful things!” He mocked her and Pan leapt towards the owl, who mocked him too, but she evaded him with grace and cooed another mockery. “You don’t have a lot to say about it because there isn’t much to it. It’s just idealist nonsense.”

“You’re a logical man! Surely you see that it is about reason and logic!” She insisted, half turning to see him better. He was having a blast by shunning her arguments.

“It’s pure charlatanism. Even I know that you cannot apply reason to everything, the world just doesn’t work that way.”

“That’s debatable.”

“No, it isn’t. Not that you will listen to me, anyway.”

“I doubt you even read the book!” She scoffed. She knew that couldn’t be true, because he had very specific arguments, but she still felt like taunting him, because she was losing that fight and badly so. Pan was rather pleased, as he hated the books she had been reading.

“Oh, I have. Twice. And there isn’t enough money in this world to convince me to go through that garbage one more time.” Marcel sneered. “It’s cheap literature. You English have a lot better authors to read than wasting your time with Brande.”

Lyra raised her chin, affronted by his comment, so she slapped her thigh to attract his attention from out of the boats. He raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smirk.

“What about Talbot, then?”

“What about him?”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll give him more credit, as his work is actually scientific.” She began, and he didn’t say anything, arching his eyebrows, encouraging her to go on with his smug attitude. She knew it was a trap, he was just waiting to slaughter her argument again, but she was too stubborn to back down. “He put a lot of thought and research into it, and I think he has valid points.”

“Really?” He dragged the word in the slowest way he possibly could.

“Yes, _really_.” She mimicked his tone and attitude, but all he did was shake his head, entertained. “A lot of what he says about daemons make sense.”

“He provides no proof.” Marcel said, adamantly and made her stutter. “No hard evidence. Most of what he says it’s speculation, twisted truths to suit his arguments. It’s cheaper than Brande; he at least tried to be original with his work.”

“So you read _The Constant Deceiver_ too?” Lyra frowned.

“Yes, and I know Talbot personally. I can guarantee you that his work is as cheap as he is, and I find _cheap_ still an unsuitable word to describe him.” Her shocked expression made him laugh. “He fills your head with exuberant words and a sense of personality, but at the end of the day, he is an opportunist who comes crawling back to Church officials, seeking permission to pursue his research.”

“Well, I-- His arguments-- What do you mean by that?” Lyra asked, her voice breaking a little, as she was unsure of how to proceed. “How do you know him?”

“Do you really think a research like Talbot’s would be approved by the Church without the right amount of bribery and blackmail?” He asked, entertained. Shaking his head, he brushed his hands against each other, trying to get read of the grass that was on it. “He needed a sort of sponsor, someone to guarantee he wouldn’t be persecuted and I’m one of them. I used to back your mother too, until she decided to investigate the Rusakov particles. Not even I had the clearance to back such a project, not back then, anyway.”

His sulking frown returned to his forehead.

“Why do you back Simon Talbot if you think his research is stupid?” Lyra asked, quietly, intrigued.

“Why not? He is influential in his own little circle, which is an academic circle in a prestigious university, and he is an useful idiot, easily led and easily bought. _Nothing more than what it is._ ” He grinned at her and she shook her head, trying not to smirk at his mimic of Brande’s catchphrase. “I understand he has quite a cult following with his silly little book.”

“It’s not a cult!” Lyra reprimanded, but Pan scoffed at her, scratching his own neck.

“Oh, that’s debatable! Those nasty, logical, _reason-ridden_ students!” He spat and Marcel glanced at him, smug. Pan slammed his paw on the floor. “Acting like their daemons don’t exist! Ignoring them! Blabbering Talbot’s cheesy one-liners like he has any intellect!”

“Well, people are entitled to their free will, aren’t they? Freedom of speech and the likes!” She was fuming, angry, and Pan growled at her; Marcel merely watched them, devoid of any expression or interest and calming them down. “And he makes several good points!”

“Which ones?” Marcel interrupted and she tilted her head at him, baffled by his sudden question. He repeated himself. “Come on. Justify yourself.”

“Well--” She stuttered and he sardonic smile upset her.

“You wouldn’t last five minutes in a Magisterium congress, you know?” He taunted her.

“I think there’s room for debate when he proposes that daemons are a delusion that we have created since our childhood.” She ignored Pan’s scoffing, who was now encouraged by Marcel’s support; that in turn cast doubt in Lyra’s speech, when she usually was all so very certain of her arguments. It just occurred to her that she had never truly discussed Brande’s and Talbot’s work with anyone who wasn’t a follower of them. “We are encouraged to pretend that there exists an entity outside our bodies which is nevertheless part of ourselves.” She quoted the book, and began to blush when Marcel laughed. He knew she was quoting Talbot, word for word, but he didn’t really interrupt, just had a good laugh at her expense. “Well, there is nothing to prove he is wrong.”

“I disagree. Pantalaimon is living proof that he is wrong.” Marcel gestured at Pan, who smiled at Lyra and stood on his back paws and stuffed his little chest, proud, nodding at Marcel. “The argument is quite compelling, I know-- all those beautiful words, so eloquently put on the same sentence and making you think that self-deception is more than real, it is collective. But while hysteria is a thing, as far as I am concerned, you cannot have _mass_ self-deception. I see your daemon, you see mine, they see each other. We all see them, they are there, like it or not.”

She stood in silence, embarrassed, and Pan made his way into her lap. The sun was high in the sky, turning everything into a dazzling tone of orange and gold. She heard Marcel breathing slowly, in and out, but she didn’t turn to face him. The wind brushed her hair away, a sharp sensation.

“Do you really think she’s gone?” Lyra asked suddenly, and that took him by surprise, taking away his smug expression and replacing it with… nothing that Lyra could identify. “I mean, Mrs. Coulter. My mother.”

It took him some time to answer, though Lyra didn’t attribute that to a lie, more so to the fact he was gathering the courage to speak. He shifted his stance a bit, tense. When he was frustrated, he looked the most like Mrs. Coulter, as well as when he was happy, though Lyra never felt like she had ever witnessed him happy, genuinely.

“I looked everywhere. _We_ looked everywhere, your acquaintances also tried finding your mother and Asriel. She was nowhere to be found, neither was he.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes. His daemon clawed his thigh, but he barely reacted. “I find it hard to believe she could be alive, especially after all this time.”

“But she could be--” Lyra pushed a little, now familiar with how much he could take before getting furious and shutting down on her.

“It’s unlikely.” He side eyed her, trying not to stare at her.

“When was she last seen?” Lyra asked; for her, the last time she had seen her mother was a long time ago, in another world altogether.

Pan saw it coming before she did, because he shook his head at her, as discreetly as he could, but neither Marcel nor his daemon were looking at them, instead watching the landscape. Lyra though he looked older now, tired. She knew what Pan had meant; it was likely that she had seen her mother last, and she could never even tell him about it. It was cruel.

“Reports claim she reached the North in 1997, then she returned to London, and left with Lord Boreal for Geneva in 1998, but she never made it to the city. Not that I know of, anyway.” He said, slowly. That was a lie, but Lyra would never know, as he lied with such skill, as if it was second nature. The last reports placed Marisa in the same building that had taken the life of Father MacPhail, but Marcel refused to believe she had died like that, alone, betrayed. It was unsuitable, it made no sense. “If she was alive, she would have reached out.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but gave up. By his fierce expression, she decided not to push him any further. He finally sighed.

“She always wrote to me, to brag or to ask for help. If she was alive, and in trouble, she would have found a way to reach out.” He massaged his own neck, biting the inside of his mouth. “We must assume she is dead. Well, that or-- nevermind.”

“You can’t just do that! Come on!” She gestured for him to speak, but he snickered and shook his head.

“Dorothea made me promise never to tell you this.”

“Oh, is she the boss of you?” Lyra scoffed, and he knew she was just poorly baiting him into talking. “Come on, tell me. You won’t hurt my feelings. I don’t think I have many left”

“Don’t be dramatic, you’re too English for that-- Well, she’s either dead or your father has her captive.” Marcel jested and that made Lyra laugh, although she felt a bitter feeling inside. He noticed her expression darken, but he didn’t acknowledge it. She was rather grateful for that.

“That sounds reasonable.” She said, at last, in a mocking tone and he laughed.

They didn’t speak for a long time, watching the sun slowly descend into the horizon, as the boats went back and forth, colourful, packed with people. He mocked the lack of stealth those bright ships had, and Lyra explained that within the Fens, the gyptians didn’t need stealth because they knew the waters better than any Magisterium soldier. He scoffed at that, but he heeded her words, because she said them seriously and confidently enough that he was reminded that part of her was also Marisa’s.

Lyra never learned that, but what he had been forbidden to tell her was that part of him still felt like she was at fault for his sister’s disappearance despite it making so little sense, despite even taking a liking to her; and as much as he tried, he found it incredibly difficult to forgive her.

  
  



End file.
